Hate You
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: A pointless oneshot for Ashley A and Elessar King. Premovie. ArthurLancelot friendship fluff. NO SLASH. Please RR! Thank you!


A/N: This – is a really, really pointless one-shot. I just now realized it. Totally pointless. But whatever. It's fluff. And it's a gift for two awesome people. But other than that, yeah – it's pretty meaningless. I didn't set out to make it meaningless, but whatever. The ending and title, I wasn't expecting. I like that though. I never title these before it's written anymore, so it makes it more interesting. Hehe. Anyway, please read and review! Thank you so much to all of you who do! I love you all! Hehe.

Don't worry. Resurrection will be updated soon enough. And there is yet something else on the way as well….

Hate You

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For Ashley A and Elessar King

"Lancelot," he called. The smokestacks were rising around him, and he was on almost dragging Excalibur along the ground. He seemed to be the only man up, but others were beginning to rise from the ash, groaning. Unfazed by the battle that had just occurred, Arthur stalked over bodies, searching for one of his knights in particular. His expression bordered on panic, as he scanned the bodies around him, hoping not to find the one he was looking for. His armor belied his temperament, and though he looked menacing, he must've been the most compassionate Roman alive, as any of his men would gladly tell. His gray eyes now strained to find his knight, to the point where it may have been called yearning. "Lancelot," he called again, but it seemed that the world was in a blur, making it futile to look.

"Arthur." One of his knights had suddenly come to his side, though he was too upset to notice whom exactly. "We have only found three dead so far but are still looking. Six of us have risen up. Gawain has a cut above his eye, and Bors seems to have something amiss with his leg, though the brute won't admit to it." Arthur was hardly paying attention, though the words seemed to sink into his subconscious.

"Good, good," he replied, not facing his knight. "Keep looking for survivors and gather our dead."

"Yes, sir," the knight agreed but paused before leaving. "Are you all right, captain?" he asked, and his youth surfaced as he did so.

" Fine," Arthur said absently. "Just looking…." His gaze was set on the ground, though he had retreated to thought. The knight looked at him tentatively, unsure whether or not he should speak further. He had a suspicion on what it was his leader was looking for – or who.

" I'm sure many more of us are yet alive," he decided to say. He lay his hand on Arthur's shoulder gently, before slipping away into the smoke. Arthur only remained still for a minute, before starting again on his search. Too many bodies lay strewn over the earth, coated in blood and mud and ash, their faces hidden in the dirt. The Woads were streaked blue, but it made little difference when he looked at the heap of corpses surrounding him. One thing he hated about battle was the disorientation it left him in afterwards. The world was always distorted once the fighting died down.

"Lancelot," he shouted again, his voice filling the emptiness. His panic turned into forlorn, and his heart became heavy. He had been given no reply to his calling, and it had brought out the bleakness of the skies above. He had slowed to a stop and stood still once more, discouraged from calling out again. Though he had not yet found the knight dead, he was already reduced to the appearance of a distraught little boy. No one, however, was coming to soothe him. He managed to call his knight's name again, but silence seemed to reply again. His head snapped toward a sound after the echo faded, however. He had heard a faint groan and eagerly began to run toward it. As he drew nearer, he called again, and the man groaned in reply.

"Lancelot," he said jubilantly, as he knelt beside his friend. The Sarmatian was yet alive but lying on his back, his hand pressed to his side. He groaned again when Arthur slipped his hand under the head of curls.

"Arthur," he grunted. "You bastard." Arthur only laughed out loud, beaming, as he took Lancelot's head in the crook of his arm and let the knight lie against his chest. "Why the bloody hell are you laughing?" the knight panted.

"It's nothing," the Roman grinned. "Just amazing how you never fail to be – you." The fact that the Sarmatian was wounded seemed to be a minor issue to the Roman, who was overjoyed at seeing his brother-in-arms, alive. Lancelot scowled at him, as he so often did, however.

"You make so much sense, Arthur," he mocked and groaned again when he inadvertently shifted. Arthur only kept grinning and called out for help, cradling Lancelot to him tightly. He secured both arms around the knight's curled form and bowed his head near to Lancelot's. The knight had drawn his knees up but kept his hand pressed to his side.

"What did you do?" Arthur asked, stifling laughter.

"I didn't do anything," Lancelot said innocently, his bad mood now melted away. "It was the bloody Woads who got to me." He was smiling to match Arthur, and they could each feel the other's breath hot on their faces.

"What did they hurt the poor baby with?" Arthur questioned, grinning broadly and chuckling when Lancelot hit him with his free hand.

"Damn you," Lancelot said good-naturedly. "And one of them slashed at me with one of their bloody knives, damn it all. I can't _believe_ I let myself get hurt."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Arthur said. "You're not any less human than the rest of us." He had tilted his head to rest against Lancelot brow, shifting his legs under the knight's weight.

"But Arthur isn't human," Lancelot said, smirking. "Arthur is a god with blood on his cloak and no one in his bed to show for it." He laughed quietly to himself, and Arthur only grinned, shaking his head. Any other Roman officer would have one of his men executed for such casual jesting, but Arthur counted himself as a friend to his own, one who was not exempt from such genial teasing.

"Well," he began. "At least you will not have to suffer an arrow head to be removed," he said. That sort of wound was never pleasant to endure, especially if the head was so far in that one had to dig around for it with a knife. Arthur cringed at the thought, for neither he nor Lancelot was a stranger to that procedure.

"I'm overjoyed," Lancelot said, sarcasm failing to come out in his weary tone. "And you? How did you fare, oh immortal one?" The two of them smiled, and Arthur answered that he had escaped unscathed. Just as Lancelot grew quiet, knights came fast approaching behind Arthur, and they were soon gathered on their knees around their captain and comrade.

"Can he walk?" one of them asked, a younger one who looked on Lancelot intently. Arthur's best friend, however, glanced at the other knight with one eye and muttered he would rather not.

"We can help him along," Arthur said, as he pried Lancelot's hand away from the wound. Despite Lancelot's boyish whining and protests, the Roman hooked the Sarmatian's arm around his neck and did not give more than a discreet glance at the newly exposed wound. The blood was not so conspicuous on Lancelot's black garments, but Arthur could see it well enough. The other knights helped him pull Lancelot to his feet and one took up Lancelot's other dangling arm upon his shoulders. The younger one was frozen and gawking at Lancelot's wound, until Arthur awakened him mildly.

When their silhouettes broke through the mist, it was the twilight of dusk without the sun to send glowing colors across the sky. Clouds had filled the expanse, and it looked like rain, once again. The knights had returned with four bodies and only number thirty-six now. Each of the dead was carried on horseback by his closest friend, and eyes were red with weeping. Arthur held Lancelot to his chest, as he rode toward the gate, his hand clamped inconspicuously to the knight's wound with his arm wrapped around Lancelot's waist. He tried his best to avoid bumps and eased his horse along, but the Sarmatian still gritted his teeth. His head only swayed down to his chest and back on Arthur's shoulder periodically, unlike the dead whose heads lolled and bounced against their friends.

"Oh, gods, Arthur," Lancelot groaned, feeling as if the Roman was digging his fingers into the wound, regardless of Arthur's care. "Let go of the bloody wound, will you?"

"You were the one holding to it for dear life on the field," Arthur muttered discreetly, his horse walking steadily and apart from the others. "Besides, if I do as you ask, it will only bleed more."

"I don't give a damn," Lancelot said, grimacing. "It's not as if it's not bleeding now – might as well just let it go all the way." Arthur rolled his eyes, unnoticed, and ignored the request. He called out to the gatekeepers and glimpsed Galahad riding alongside Gawain, whose face was half bloodied. The younger knight's horse was pressed against his injured friend, and his face carried that expression of concern civilians would often have. Half the knights passed through the gate, before Arthur slipped in amongst them. The main square was suddenly packed with knights and their horses, buzzing with excitement as the stable boys promptly appeared to relieve the men of their mounts. Arthur gave the reins over to one of the hands and slid his arms under Lancelot's arms, sliding out of the saddle and pulling the knight with him.

"Does he need a physician, milord?" the boy asked the Roman, his eyes too big beneath his bangs. Dirt smudged his face, and he peered curiously at Lancelot. Arthur confirmed that he did, and the boy led him through the crowd, horse at his side. The captain trudged after him, Lancelot struggling along. Arthur could feel a patch of his tunic warm with blood not his own. As he followed the boy, he looked around him at the chaos and his men who suddenly became faceless and strange. The noise had grown distant, and he was barely aware of Lancelot's body against his. He glimpsed one of the knights clearly, sitting in a corner with a body in his lap. The soldier didn't look at him, only wept over the dead man. Arthur had forgotten how many Woads they had killed.

"Here you are, milord," the boy said, and the Roman somehow heard him. The young voice sounded like the far north of the island, and he couldn't have been more than ten years old. Arthur thanked him absently, and the child turned away while he continued on inside the ward. Men had already started limping in, and the smell of blood strung through the air with their cries. Arthur stood still, allowing Lancelot heave against him, as his eyes searched for an available physician. One he did not recognize stumbled toward him, flustered and mumbling.

"Milord," he began. "Are you in need of assistance?" He was stuttering, and his face was moist with sweat. Blood already stained his tunic. Arthur took a minute to nod and explain that Lancelot had been struck. He hardly felt himself follow the anxious man to an empty cot, the Sarmatian dragging alongside him. He let Lancelot down on the cot, the knight collapsing upon it painfully. His curls flung back over his head as Arthur moved to kneel behind him, and the physician fetched the necessary utensils. Lancelot's face gleamed with sweat now, and Arthur silently prayed that the knight be spared infection and fever. Both were breathing fast, Arthur's breath coming in shudders and Lancelot's in pants. The Sarmatian was fidgeting now, his eyes squeezed shut as he mewled like a neglected kitten.

"Damn you," he uttered, hooking Arthur's attention.

"What?" the Roman said, inclining his head toward the knight, his thoughts interrupted.

"Damn you," Lancelot repeated, squirming uncomfortably, his hand back over his side again. The physician finally scurried over to him, relieving himself of a jumble of things on the next empty cot. He mussed with his hair nervously as he looked over Lancelot, who could not keep still. After an awkward moment, Arthur relaxed once the man began to peel Lancelot's jerkin away, leaving only the cotton tunic unbuttoned enough to expose the wound. The Roman remained quiet at Lancelot's head, peering at the physician's working hands. His eyes glimmered when he caught sight of the wound, a slash that streaked from the middle of Lancelot's side down around to the edge of his belly. Apparently, it was shallow over the knight's ribs but it deepened as it descended. The physician began cleaning it, swiftly going through swaths of cloths that came away soaked in blood. Lancelot's arms had reached back to hook around Arthur, as he gasped and moved his legs uneasily. Though the Roman had his arms around Lancelot's neck, his head resting against the Sarmatian's black curls, he gazed blankly at the physician's ministrations.

"Oh, Arthur, you bastard," Lancelot gasped when the wine was poured over the gash. "You bastard, you bloody bastard." Arthur didn't answer. He only kept staring, as the physician pressed a new cloth to the wound and the wine sunk in. His gloved hands were absently running over small patches of Lancelot's chest, soothing him as best he could. The captain's gray eyes shone, as the scent of Lancelot's curls invaded him. The Sarmatian moaned when the physician began to sew him up, and Arthur's hand went to his forehead without a thought. Lancelot began to relax once the bottom half of the gash was stitched, his arms loosening around Arthur.

"Have I ever told you," he began. "How much I hate you?" His chest was rising and falling deeply beneath Arthur's strokes. The Roman managed a faint smile, caressing Lancelot's brow and stray curls.

"I hate you too, Lancey," Arthur said and smiled when Lancelot gave an irate groan and damned him again. The physician finished wrapping the knight's middle with bandage and discreetly pulled Lancelot's tunic down over his belly again. He gave a short bow to Arthur, who thanked him sincerely, and scuttled off again.

"It's going to bloody rain again, damn it." Both Arthur and Lancelot looked to their left, where Gawain had suddenly appeared. His face had been washed of the blood, and he looked unscathed save for the cut above his eyebrow. He looked to his captain and comrade innocently, as Galahad swayed to Gawain's side.

"Damn this wretched island," Gawain continued, and Galahad grinned as he clapped a hand to Gawain's shoulder.

"Well, are you satisfied, Arthur?" Bors grunted, as he rocked over from around a corner, a leg of lamb keeping him occupied. "About thirty of 'em dead, those Woads, and only four of our own." Arthur only answered heavily that he would have to bury the four in the morning. He looked back to Lancelot again, who had closed his eyes to rest for the moment. The Roman kissed his friend's curls gently and murmured again,

"Hate you, Lancelot." The Sarmatian smiled.

"Hate you more, Arthur," he answered. Arthur faintly grinned as he stood, Lancelot holding on to his arm for the few seconds before it slipped away. The Roman rested his hand on Lancelot's brow for a moment, stroking over his curls with a repressed sigh. He let go and looked again to his other knights. They only stared back, Tristan and Dagonet now with them, and after a while, they smirked.


End file.
